


Plyometric

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor’s almost a soccer star in the making.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Plyometric

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The ball soars through the air, arching over the length of the field, flying past the goalie and slamming into the net so hard that it looks like it might break. Cheers erupt from the players on Connor’s side, the others either grinning or flabbergasted—any way you look at it, it was an _incredible_ shot. It’s no wonder they haven’t lost a game since Connor joined. Connor straightens from where he’d been bent over the ball, casting a bashful look at his nearby teammates. Even Reed gives him a begrudging thumbs up. Chris runs over to slap him on the back, and Connor brushes it off, humble as ever, probably because he doesn’t have any ego to inflate. 

The practice match is official tied. Connor seems to be giving his all today, so his side will probably win, but they’ve still got ten minutes to go. Hank blows his whistle anyway, because that last impossible shot confirmed all his worst fears. He knows he has to bite the bullet sooner or later, and it’s smarter to do it _before_ they’re in the big leagues. 

Everyone freezes at the sound, but Hank points squarely at his number one player. He can see Connor’s big brown eyes going wide all the way across the field. He points to his own chest, mouthing ‘me’: the perfect picture of innocence. Hank hates ruining that. But he waves his hand and nods, gesturing Connor over. 

Connor jogs towards him, nearing the tree Hank’s been standing under for the sake of shade—it’s a gruelingly hot day. Tina kicks the ball back onto the field, and Reed swoops in on it like a hawk, ever-eager to perform when Connor’s not around to steal the spotlight. Hank’s completely lost interest in the game. His eyes are glued to Connor, his brown hair bouncing atop his pretty face as he approaches the side table. A number of environmentally-friendly refilled glass water-bottles line it, and he stops to uncap one, quickly dumping the contents over his head. Hank’s breath hitches, eyes caught on the water rushing down his handsome figure, gluing his white shirt to his trim body and clinging to his chin, his biceps, the plush arch of his lips—Connor’s dangerous enough when he’s dry.

He’s a terror when he’s wet. He shakes a few stray drops out of his too-soft hair and grabs a folded towel, tossing it over his shoulders. Any of the other players might’ve done the same, trying to combat the heat and their own sweat.

Except Hank already suspects that Connor wasn’t sweating, and the water’s just a way of masking that damning observation. Connor smiles as he comes closer, and Hank tries to look at that smile instead of the hard outline of his nipples peeking through his drenched shirt. It figures that Hank’s most troublesome player would also have to be the hottest. 

Connor comes close enough to touch, never one for physical boundaries when it comes to Hank, and Hank almost steps back himself just so he won’t smell Connor’s cologne. He has an idea why Connor’s always wearing that too. Just in case, Hank checks over Connor’s shoulder, but the rest of the team isn’t anywhere near earshot. 

Connor tilts his head and asks in that lilting, wondrously unique voice of his, “What is it, Coach?”

Hank takes a minute to answer. He was up all night thinking about this, and he still didn’t prepare a proper speech. Still doesn’t know what to say. It’s so hard, because he doesn’t want to say it at all, but he forces himself to mutter, “I’m sorry, Connor. But... I have to kick you off the team.”

Connor’s mouth actually falls open. Some of the lingering water slithers down his cheek and into it, and Hank would give just about anything to be that droplet, and he _hates that_. Hates how _devastated_ Connor looks. He was really hoping he’d get a blank disinterest and this problem would just go away.

Instead, Connor asks, “W... may I ask why?” He’s polite to the bitter end. But he adds, “I thought I was doing well. If this about my injury last week—”

Hank cuts him off with a deadly quiet, “We both know you’re not injured.”

Connor’s mouth slowly closes. He doesn’t say anything, but something’s changed in his expression. Hank sucks in a breath and says, “You were doing too well, attracting too much attention. You made it look like you slipped so you’d look as fallible as everyone else. As _human_. But...” Somehow, he can’t bring himself to say _we both know you’re not._

There’s a long, painful pause where the wind rustles the tree above them, blowing the occasional leaf down over the table. The impact of each hard kick and the shouting that follows all drowns out Connor’s silence. Eventually, Connor asks, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t until just now.” But he’d suspected. There was a time when he wanted to be a cop—a detective—wanted to make a difference in the world. Now he wishes he was the useless old drunk everyone thinks he is. It would’ve been easier. 

Connor admits, “I didn’t really want to play anyway.”

Hank blurts out before he can stop himself, “I didn’t know androids could want anything.”

He doesn’t mean that as an accusation. He’s not trying to judge. Once, he would’ve. If he’d found out Connor’s secret several months ago, there would’ve been hell to play. But now he _knows_ Connor. He’s watched Connor play, seen Connor’s grace, _felt his passion_ , and there’s no way Hank could hate him now. Can’t even condemn him for lying. It’s just a horribly empty, hollow revelation. 

Glancing down, like the grass is easier to look at than Hank, Connor murmurs, “I wanted company, I suppose. An easy way to bond with others. Before I pried my LED out, I spent so much time following orders that there was never any chance to make a connection with someone like you.”

 _Someone like Hank._ Hank doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. He supposes he can understand the want for human connection—even he feels that ache sometimes. Maybe it’s not a huge shock that a sentient robot could too. Hank resists the urge to ask what Connor was built for—what he was meant to do before he went rogue. 

All he says is, “Sorry.” And he is. He doesn’t want to kick Connor off the team. Doesn’t want Connor to go at all. But... “If anyone found out...” It wouldn’t just be the rest of the team paying the price.

“It’s okay,” Connor says over him. Connor’s thick lashes flutter down, and his chin tilts up, eyes slowly opening to pierce into Hank. Most of the water’s drizzled off his face by now, though that one characteristic curl is still plastered across his forehead, right next to one of his many moles. He really is built _beautifully._ “I’ll forgive you... if you buy me a coffee.”

Hank’s too old to blush. At least, he thought he was. He can feel his cheeks heating. He hasn’t been on a coffee date in _years_. He probably shouldn’t, but he asks, “Do you drink?”

“No. But I do value new data, and I’d like to experience having a normal date with my attractive coach.”

Hank snorts. “First of all, don’t lie to me—I haven’t been ‘attractive’ in a good fifteen years. Second of all, I wouldn’t agree if I were still your coach.”

“But you’re not,” Connor notes, “So...”

Hank opens his mouth, only to close it. He should probably say no. Android or not, Connor’s probably too young for him. Too _pretty_. Too damn good at soccer. 

Connor adds, “You are attractive, by the way. I’ve been entertaining pre-constructions of performing oral sex on you since I first joined the team, although I have woefully limited data on the subject.”

Just like that, he’s talking like a stilted robot, and wildly, somehow, that just makes him _cuter_. Hank’s too busy being enamoured to even be flattered. 

He dazedly admits, “Yeah, sure... just... let me finish practice.”

“May I play for the duration of it? I promise not to return for the next one, but now that you know... I wouldn’t mind the chance to ‘show off’ for you, as it were.”

Hank should say no. But he grunts, “Go for it,” and Connor smiles like he has a heart that’s beating twice as fast. Hank’s is racing too fast for him. 

Turning on his heel, Connor jogs back to the field. This time Hank lets himself ogle that sweet android ass, because Hank’s only human.


End file.
